On Howfield 1863

There's not a spot on earth so dear
To me as Howfield's bowers;
here winding Petteril flows through holms
And meadows decked with flowers; ~
Of lovely scenes of happiness
In boyhood's sunny hours!

A.D. 1884

But many years have passed away,
Since I those bowers have seen;
And Care has plowed his furrows deep;~
Yet still no other scene
Is half so dear to Memory's heart,
As Howfield's woods so green.

A.D. 1889

And now, when other years have flown,
I roam in exile still;
For naught can satisfy my heart
Like Howfield on the hill;
No holms, no meadows half so sweet,
No stream like Petteril.

I long to see the dear old farm,
To walk through Chapel Dale,
To wander through the pleasant woods,
That beautify the vale;
To lay me down in childhood's home,
When strength and life shall fail.

The wish is vain, I bid farewell
My childhood home to thee;
They woods, tghy streams, thy hills, thy vales,
My eyes no more shall see;
But though I tread thy fields no more,
None else so dear to me.